


Flowers like Stars

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Painting, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:34:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22893340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: Aziraphale expresses his love through a painting...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Flowers like Stars

Crowley liked the funny ones. Aziraphale had always shown appreciation for both ends of the spectrum. How could he ignore that sometimes joy was that much brighter for having been born from sadness? How could he discard a whole range of creations just because they made him feel something different than the way he did when he observed Crowley’s face?

Humans excelled at creating. They created violence, racism. Weapons and war. But they also created love and understanding. Friendship. Art.

Aziraphale had never felt the need to join them in creating—he had been content to stand at the sidelines, give the truly creative ones a shove every now and then. And yet there was this feeling deep inside his chest, this longing. Something he couldn’t express in mere words.

The angel blinked into the light of the morning sun. Somehow he had sat here, at this desk, for at least a few days, blankly staring at a sheet of paper, which rivalled his own head in its emptiness. He put down the pen, on which the ink had dried so long ago that it was already flaking off, falling on the white surface beneath like ash.

“This isn’t going to work,” he mumbled to himself and leaned back.

His whole body creaked as it moved, but Aziraphale merely miracled away the ache. He looked around. Surrounded by so many books, the words of countless works in his head, the experience of having known the world’s most popular authors, and yet… and yet he couldn’t write a sentence on his own. He wasn’t angry, but he was disappointed. Maybe he needed to see his muse again. The reason while his chest was bursting with emotion so powerful it sometimes overwhelmed him so much he wanted to cry.

A wave of his hand later, drawing divine power from the heavens, he found himself in a darkened room. The air had grown somewhat stale in his absence, the vicinity dusty. Easily fixable with another frivolous miracle, not only had the surfaces been cleaned, but also the plants surrounding the bed watered. Aziraphale drew back the curtains to let in the sun, which projected a ray directly onto the bed, where Crowley had been sleeping for the last 52 years.

A jolt of pain shot through the angel as he saw the sunlight kiss Crowley’s face. Oh, how he longed to gently touch the demon’s skin like the star, warming it with its presence. How he hated himself for keeping away, for never letting his hands stray beyond an appropriate touch.

He had to create here, Aziraphale decided. Here, where his heart was overflowing and the love could be spilled onto the page. He raised his hand, but then he hesitated. Maybe… maybe it was better to try something else. Instead of a bundle of paper, a canvas appeared, propped up next to the bed. Once more the angel hesitated, and then conjured up a painting kit like he had seen in the 17th century in Italy. Oil paints, mostly tiny brushes. He opened one of the containers and the strong smell spread through the room. For a moment he thought about making it vanish, but then he shook his head. If this would wake Crowley from his slumber, he wouldn’t be opposed. At all.

The brush was light in his hand, the first stroke of a dark blue on the canvas felt like a revelation. It was his heart made real, the flutter, the rainbow, the colour that he felt inside, translated into something that sparkled and shined in the light, that he could see and find himself in. With a sigh he sunk into the task, eyes resolutely fixed onto the canvas. 

Even though he was in the room with him, he didn’t need to see Crowley’s face to be able to paint it with every crease and every freckle. He had the experience of millenia. From time to time his hand started shaking every so slightly as emotion overcame him, and he looked at his sleeping friend only to calm his heart.

When Aziraphale finally stepped back, he released his breath. Only then he realised that he’d been holding it for several days of painting, of tireless work. He walked a few more steps to observe the canvas in all its glory and he was not disappointed. How could he when he’d poured all the love he felt for the demon into it.

Crowley was lying in the painting as he was in his bed, only he was floating in clear water, his hair flowing like a red halo around his head. The white clothes on his body puffed up, weightless in the water around him like a cloud. The surface was still, dark, and reflected the night sky as thousands of tiny lights dancing around Crowley’s body. All throughout his hair, small white flowers floated, surrounding the demon’s head like a starry nebula of his own.

On Crowley’s lips was an enigmatic, benevolent smile. It was the one that he gifted Aziraphale with in their more tender moments. The moments during which the angel had to hide the beating of his heart, lest it betrayed the emotions it contained.

“Apologies, my dear boy,” Aziraphale mumbled. “I know you like the funny ones, but it seems my head wants to see you as Ophelia…”

“I’m not dead yet,” Crowley rasped from the bed, his throat complaining over decades of neglect.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale gasped and dropped his paints, spilling them over the bedding, spread out like the milky way.

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I had to think of the paintings that show Ophelia drowned with all the flowers and I had to write this? Thanks, brain.


End file.
